THE FRUSTRATION STATION

  The garage-looking building, south of the old Airport entrance on Radio Road that housed the Civil Air Patrol, was once  the last place in Naples you wanted to visit. That was when it was the Vehicle Inspection Station.

 This was where you went to get the required windshield sticker showing your vehicle was safe to be on the road. It was also where you dealt with unbelievable bureaucracy and incompetence.

  Like what? Suppose you had a small car. You knew that even if it was straight from the factory it would fail the brake test. Always. The test required you to roll over a steel pressure sensitive plate and slam on your brakes. Invariably, the machine'd report your brakes were worn out and you'd fail the test. So, to get around it, you loaded the back seat with three of your friends and returned to the station. The extra weight would change the reading, endorsing your wonderful brakes.

  Then, you had to unload your passengers before you took the headlight test. The extra weight in the back seat would cause your headlights to aim too high and you'd fail the test.

  Folks dreaded the annual debacle. Some more than others. Our Lt JD Spohn was one of those who'd rather kiss Whoopi Goldberg than  get inspected. Every year when he took his well-maintained Caddy for the check-up it failed. Then one day he had enough.

 Having returned to the station after two trips to his mechanic for headlight adjustments--that the mechanic said it didn't need--and other bogus deficiencies, JD was livid when he finally finished the test. When the inspector started to reach into the car to scrape off his old sticker and install the new, JD said, "Nope, don't you stick your head inside my car."

 "But how am I gonna see to put on the sticker?" the inspector whined.

 "You figure it out. Just don't put your head inside my car."

 "This is ridiculous," the inspector said, poking his head inside JD's car. 
 Bad mistake! JD rolled the electric window up on his neck. And wouldn't roll it down. And started to drive away.

 After a frantic call to the PD, we arrived and were able to calm JD down. And the strangle-ee, who was "gonna press charges."

 "Go ahead," we told him. "JD will ask for a jury trial and no juror in Collier County, who owns a car, will convict him." The point was well taken and JD walked.

 Shortly thereafter, with a frog strangler of complaints raining down on the state legislature, the stations were all inspected. It was found in ours that the machine that read headlight focus had never been calibrated  since it'd  been installed. Never. And the brake machine was about as accurate as the clowns who calculated Obama's budget.

 It wasn't long before the stations were closed and the program sent to Bad Idea Hell where it belonged. 
  The program was based on BS to begin with. The idea came from accident reports wherein drivers claimed, when they didn't stop, that their brakes were defective. Of course they were lying but that's where the program emanated. Some bean-counter reading the data concluded that most of the cars in accidents in Florida had bad brakes.

  Now you know how laws get made. Scary, isn't it?